Mikey's Wisdom

I’m going to be talking about my dry stretch, again. You’ve been warned.

My experience trying to meet guys here in my new state has been, at the very least, frustrating. I’m in the most populous county of Connecticut, and I can’t find a damned guy with whom to hook up. And it’s been making me lose faith a little. In my mojo. In my modest looks. In the god who would strand me here for such a trial.

It really hasn’t been for lack of trying, honestly. The area has no gay bars, and I don’t have a firm enough grasp of geography here so I haven’t gone to any of the bookstores. So I’ve been limited to online interactions, and they’ve all been disappointments. My profiles get plenty of attention. But the follow-through is zilch.

I made a morning date with a married guy who wanted badly to be fucked, for example. Oh, his emails to me were case studies of boner-inducing promises of untold sensuality. He seemed sincere, which is something that most cybersexers never manage. I logged on at our appointed date time the next morning, saw him online, dropped him a note and waited for him to tell me what time he wanted to come over. I have a stomach ache, he wrote back. Sorry.

Then I never heard from him again.

I had a guy who asked if I was looking. Yes, I told him. I was looking and available then. Did I want to come over, he wanted to know? His place was free and he had all morning to fuck. Yes, I replied. I wanted to come over. He wrote back immediately with, Sorry, I can’t host.


I went back to his previous emails to make certain I hadn't misread him. No, he said he was able to have me over. I’m still trying to figure out that one.

Another guy said he was driving a truck out of one of the boroughs up through Connecticut along 95, and wanted me breed him. Was I available to fuck him in his truck? Yes, I told him. I was available all afternoon from twelve-thirty up until about six, and was more than willing to drive to one of the rest stops along I-95 in order to meet him. I gave him my cell number and got an enthusiastic response from the guy.

Never heard from him.

I agreed to meet with an older guy from Manhunt who invited me over after he asked if I was free. I told him I was free all morning, and would love to meet. I’d brushed my teeth and dressed and had my sandals on in anticipation of getting his address when he messaged me back: Sorry, my boyfriend just woke up. Guess we can’t meet now.

That’s another one I’m still trying to figure out.

I’ve had guys from BBRT—including two of my readers—tell me they’d be available and when I’d set aside a block of time for them, they wouldn’t call or surface online. I’ve given out my address and cell number to a couple of men who said they were on the way over, and who never showed. I had one guy message me on Adam4Adam asking how I was doing, and I replied with Good morning. How are you?, only to have him sent me a hostile rant a half-hour later about how rude I was and how he was going to unfollow me on Twitter. Why, I still can't figure out.

These examples are just the tip of the iceberg. I kind of figured I wasn’t going to be playing around with guys the week before and perhaps the week after my move. I’ve been in Connecticut a solid month now, though, and I still haven’t met anyone. No, I take that back. One guy who was explicit and lurid about wanting me to fuck and fist him online insisted on meeting for coffee before hooking up. I met him at a Starbucks and watched in amazement as he squirmed and avoided any mention aloud of why we were meeting. The guy was as incapable of having a frank adult discussion of sex as he would’ve been of lifting a twenty-ton tank. He was barely able to carry on a conversation with me, and it limped along until I suggested we call it a day—and then he ran to his phone and began to send me all manner of messages about how hot I was and how he wanted me to do countless nasty things to him.

Probably won’t be happening.

I’ve done precious little about the situation than dip my toe in the waters again and again. And complain. I’ve honestly tried not to be tiresome about it, but holy crap. This place is either crazy, or I am seriously out of step.

It was yesterday, though, that I was complaining to Mikey about how long it had been since I’d gotten to fool around. Because if you can’t complain to your big brother, who else can you complain to, right? And here’s what he had to say:

Here's what I think about the not getting laid issue. Please don't be offended little brother ....... I have never seen YOU not be able to get laid .. you just have that going on .. you have charm and you have all the right stuff. I think it has more to do with your choice being taken away about being in your element here in Michigan .. I have a feeling that you still have some anger about that and as much as you love your mate you were on solid, secure, stable and yes popular ground here! I think you're still a little pissed and hurt that your choice was taken away over reasons that .. Yes .. monetarily things maybe a little more secure but it's still tied to the relationship and not your independence. So .. how does that show up .. no sex ... indecision ... fear .. does that make sense???

Mikey has the ability to make me really think, sometimes. I disagreed with him on one point, though, and wrote back to say that I had absolutely no fear about meeting anyone here, and certainly wasn’t the indecisive one.

No not fear and indecision about fucking little brother ... fear and indecision about letting yourself settle there .. like giving in to something that you didn't really want and feeling like if things were a little more balanced that it is a decision you would have never gone along with.

That’s when his point really hit home. There’ve been other times I’ve had dry stretches, whether by chance or by choice, that didn’t bother me quite so much. I’ve been letting this one rule my mood. It’s been getting me angry to the point of tearfulness. It’s fueled a lot of resentment, and obsession. Mikey managed to put his finger on a matter more central to the issue: I was using the dry spell to fuel some latent upset about having to move at all. He was totally right about that.

The metropolitan New York City area was the absolute last place in the country I wanted to move. I can’t think of anywhere save for maybe San Francisco that’s more expensive, and don’t know anyplace more congested. I always try to regard things in the best possible light and acted more than happy when the spouse’s job offer came through. I was a trouper through the long separation and all the work on the house and on packing and moving that I had to do myself.

Now I’m here, and like Mikey said, perhaps on a certain unconscious level, I’ve been pissed about it. Pissed to have to leave behind my network, my friends, my sweet friendship with Spencer. If popularity is what I had, I’m pissed at having to start over. Perhaps very deeply, I’m pissed that my choices in the matter were stomping all over a loved one’s dream job, versus moving to an area of the country in which I never wanted to live.

And somehow all those resentments are manifesting in my dry spell. I honestly haven’t been aware that I’m sabotaging myself, but perhaps I am in subtle ways—perpetuating a state of sexlessness for myself so that I can exercise my petulance so that it comes out as a grudge against this new place and the men who dwell in it. Mikey makes me sound like a child having a tantrum for something silly and random, but he’s right. I’ve been channeling all my frustrations and worry and fear and anger into this one obsession—the dry spell—and letting it overwhelm my waking moments. I can endure a few weeks without a hookup. The bigger issues underneath, like my apparent grudge at being uprooted, I need to work out at home.

Awareness, though, is the first step to recovery. I’ve decided to keep my big brother’s wisdom in mind as I face the drought. On a certain level I still think the men of Connecticut are crazy fuckers, but I’m going to start observing how the drought might be of my own making. I’m going to relax, to enjoy the season, and to stop letting a fruitless hunt rule my mood. Likewise, I’m going to refuse to let fester any unhappinesses related to the move. Once I’ve set those things right, my sex life will resume as normal.

If there’s anything I’ve tried to put across in this blog, which I’ve always presented to you guys with warts and blemishes and all, it’s that sex is not a simple matter of inserting object A into slot B. It’s not hydraulics and mechanics. It’s a messy amalgam of emotions and motivations and fears and desire that often results in something joyous, and just as often into something odd or messy. I’m no more proficient of steering away from the latter as anyone else; I’ve never pretended otherwise.

So thank you, Mikey. You little brother is grateful for the insight. And it’s nice to know that when my head’s a little muddled and my feelings in a mess, I’ve got a big brother to help straighten me out.